Unprofessional
by Bad Ronald
Summary: Before RE 1. S.T.A.R.S. Captain Albert Wesker takes care of business and tries to find the missing Chris and Jill in crime scene. Think they're waxing philosophical this time around? In a confession booth, no less? Definite Chris/Jill stuff here, too.


**Unprofessional**

Jeremy Urbano Rosete (Bad Ronald)

Wesker didn't consider himself _vain_, not in that conceited definition of the word anyway, but he did take a particular pride in his chiseled, Greek Statue-esque looks. He was a man of punctuality, of preparation… of a peculiar brand of perfection. Perfection in actions, mind you, not appearances.

Let it be known that when one S.T.A.R.S. captain— Captain Albert Wesker, sets his mind on something, it will be done come heaven or hell. It was Birkin who was vain, that insufferable scientist who sniveled until Wesker did his work for him, then Birkin would gleefully take all the credit afterwards. But that didn't matter to Wesker himself, oh no, he was a man of action, not accolades, and if someone took the credit for his work, all the more so as long as _he_ did the work, so long as someone _knew_ that Albert Wesker did the work, lazy science researchers be damned.

He was not like Birkin, who depended on others to get his work done for him, or like that pathetic agent HUNK, he of the Security Service sector, who could only follow orders like a guard dog hungry for slabs of meat— granted, Wesker knew about HUNK's deathless reputation, but Wesker also smelled treachery afoot… and oh, he knew much about treachery, indeed.

He clearly recalled one humorous moment when he indulged one of the Umbrella higher-ups to watch the Security Service train diligently for their next mission after hearing him harp nonstop about their skills, particularly observing Agent HUNK go through the training with brisk, blistering ease. The higher-up had whistled appreciatively and said breathlessly, "Now _that's_ a professional." Wesker had a hell of a time— _a HELL of a time—_ holding back his laughter out of respect. Professional? Spare him, that agent was a mere dog.

It was Wesker who was the professional, it was he who managed the strings behind the curtains, pulling each one up and down as he pleased. Some might call him a double-crosser, back-stabber, double-agent, all of which were mere minuscules to his entire repertoire of specialties. Some might call him a specialist, which was close, but not quite cutting the essence of the true being.

Some might call him a professional, and then, and only then would they be right on the money because that's what he was.

A professional.

So how did it come to this, standing in a locked restroom, in front of an intricately ordained mirror in a dilapidated cathedral, with steaming water running from the faucet and a combat blade scratching at his chin? A professional didn't look at his own reflection in a convoy window, startled as he felt his jaw, seeing in the reflection a neglected five o' clock shadow. He came in briefing his S.T.A.R.S. team members with stubbles bristling on his face! They didn't even say anything, but looking back, Wesker knew they didn't have to. In the mission briefing, he must've missed the surreptitious looks, the _titters_, passed from member to member, all of them noticing the growing hairs on his jaw.

What he'd give for a spot of shaving cream. The gleaming blade sliced cleanly across the bristles, some of them tugging painfully free, but he was used to pain, oh yes, he _administered _it sometimes during those… "interrogations," if they could be called that, where none of the S.T.A.R.S. would be present and with only the police chief Brian Irons gleefully watching on from the other side of the mirror. As he recalled, one of them had Wesker shaving a witness's face, much like he was doing now. Except that time, he used a cheese grater with a dab from a salt shaker.

That one hair, just below his chin, was starting to annoy him. It taunted him, refusing to budge, absolutely refusing to be cut away no matter how hard he flattened the blade against his skin. Wesker pursed his lips and tried again once more, flattening it as tightly across his skin as possible and slowly cut forward, a small triumphant smirk breaking out on his face as he saw that piece of troublesome hair finally cut free.

His knife jerked forward at the abrupt sound of the doorknob jigging. Wesker cursed under his breath at the sight of a long red line coursing down his neck. Dabbing it off quickly, he jammed his thumb on the wound as hard as he could until he could feel— actually _feel—_ the cut wound start to mend. Or maybe that was just in his mind, some wishful thinking of his, like his occasional yearnings for instantly regenerative skin or increased strength... no, that was just fantastical nonsense. He resisted the urge to scratch as he snatched open the door, seeing Joseph Frost with that uncouth bandanna around his head.

"What," said Wesker. It wasn't a question.

"Sorry, boss," Frost said, just like a stereotypical movie flunky, "didn't know ya were takin' care of business."

"If you must know," Wesker said, pushing up his shades a little further to cover his annoyance. "I was looking for any sort of evidence, which is what you should also be doing."

"I gotta use the can, boss," was Frost's irritating reply.

"My title is _Captain_, you'd do well to remember, and if you must… take care of business… then use the other facilities across from here. Tell Vickers to drive you. We don't want anything of evidence to be… ruined."

A spot of color streaked on Frost's face. He nodded, muttered, "Yessir, cap'n," and went off. Wesker watched him until the man went outside, then slipped back inside to shut the door so he could clean his blade, check the cut which couldn't be seen unless one looked very closely, and then unzipped his pants so he could take a piss in the toilet. He'd been holding it long enough.

After taking care of business, he absently flushed the porcelain throne and stepped out to survey the crime scene. There was Frost having a brief argument with Vickers— from their body movements and aggravated shouting match, it seemed like Vickers didn't want to drive Frost to the nearest McDonald's, so Frost was demanding the keys which Vickers also refused to give up.

Wesker turned and sighted Burton kneeling over a bloodstain as if the thing fascinated him (honestly, Wesker wouldn't be surprised). He almost stepped forward to tell Burton to leave it alone for the forensic boys, but stopped in his tracks as he realized something was wrong with this picture. Where was Redfield, who would—without a doubt— be complaining that he was hungry and could settle for a good burger at Emma's and if anyone wanted to join him they could, and for that matter, where was Valentine, who would be telling Redfield to knock it off, they were on a crime scene, could he please just focus on the job so she, and the rest of them, would be able to get out of there a little faster?

Wesker looked around the cathedral, stepping over the dead bodies of the victims and the cult members, kicking aside one of their discarded weapons, a golden-edged reaper. He started from the back of the cathedral, where the lower facilities were located, and made his way up to the seats, which were all empty after checking. Where the hell were they? Surely they weren't slacking off on the job, Valentine and Redfield were too duty-bound to think of such a thing… although Redfield could be having a smoke outside.

With that thought in mind, he checked outside, seeing not Redfield smoking his Lucky Strikes, but only Frost and Vickers bickering about the keys.

"Cap'n," Frost said, turning to him, "Vicker's bein' a little bitch about the keys, and I really gotta take a piss."

"Go in the bushes, then," Vickers said, "No one's gonna notice. You should be used to pissing in the ones around your house anyway."

"Ya see what I gotta deal with, cap'n? C'mon, just gimme the damn things, Chickenheart, ya anal-retentive creep—"

"Don't call me that, man!" Chickenheart Vickers said, his face tinted burgundy, his little fists shivering in impotent fury.

Wesker had to resist the urge to slap himself on the forehead. Now he knew how a babysitter felt like. He remembered going through the dossiers of suggested S.T.A.R.S. candidates to approve them for the Alpha Squad.

What in hell had he been thinking when he stamped the red _APPROVED_ on these two? Ah, yes. He still needed some incompetent people to make his job easier. It was BRAVO squad Captain Enrico Marini who had gotten most, if not all the talented ones.

Well, if anything, he needed to find Redfield and Valentine quickly, before the blue boys came back with the forensics to sweep up the place. Wesker had found the files literally right after coming in by himself. He had scooped them up and stuffed them in his vest before his squad had noticed a thing. He had initially been insulted by their complete lack of attention, and had to remind himself that incompetent people made his job easier. Speaking of incompetent…

"You wanna talk about something, Frost, talk about that stupid thing on your head—"

"Hey, don't knock it, Chickenheart, this bandanna's my grandpa's. He worn this since Vietnam, so you can just suck my—"

Wesker turned to them and said, "Enough. Vickers, either drive him or give him the keys."

Before they could respond or complain, Wesker stepped inside the cathedral. He had enough stupidity to last him a lifetime. He passed Burton, who shifted his focus, it seemed, from the blood stain on the floor to the blood stain on the wall. Wesker wondered if Burton even knew what a blood stain was.

He stalked across the seats again, seeing nothing, until he reached the front podium, where a dead man in a black robe was slumped over. Shoving the corpse aside, Wesker looked at the Bible on the podium which turned out wasn't a Bible at all. It was a giant book-keep with an unused pistol in it. He looked at the robed corpse and shook his head in disbelief. Couldn't the man have just hidden that gun in his robes?

Wesker stole a look at a piece of paper inside the book-keep. He snatched it out, reading it over with a quirked-brow. All it said was, _"Where are the Las Plagas? Where are they?!"_ Useless junk. He crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it over his shoulder, sighing at this immense waste of time. That's when he heard a light thump, a sliding sort of sound, like a door opening. He followed the sound and found himself in front of a confession booth. Of course, it had to be a confession booth.

Wait.

Wesker had to stop himself for a second to think, his mind going over the variables of the fact that there was a sound in a confession booth. Redfield was missing, and so was Valentine. This concluded that either Redfield or Valentine was in it. Or both.

Wesker didn't like the thoughts his mind was offering him. The texture of the thoughts was degrading, he knew he had incompetents in his squad, but he didn't want _this. _He hoped just Redfield was in there, or just Valentine, or if they were both in, the very least they could be doing was be discussing Philosophy. In a confession booth. Yes. That was certainly it. After all, this was a church, a cathedral actually, and the two could have been struck by some sort of philosophical quote, and they decided to discuss this in here and Wesker just couldn't believe the stream of bullshit he was inventing now.

Just open the door, he thought to himself. Just open the door and yell at them if they're not… if they're not looking for evidence.

Rather than doing that, he opened the door next to the booth, where the Father would sit and listen to the sins. Oh my. Behind the screen he saw a flurry of movement, heard the moans, and his sunglasses fell on his lap. He picked them up and put them back on. Well, now, it was quite obvious Redfield wasn't searching for evidence, unless the evidence happened to be inside Valentine's shirt. Valentine's hands were clasped around Redfield's wrists to prevent him from going further as she sat on his lap, kissing—

Kissing wasn't quite the word. Sucking face was.

Wesker could only sit there, agape, as the two kissed— sucked face— made out, whatever you want to call it, unless you'd call it looking for evidence, then you'd be wrong. He wondered what a captain of a tactical squad would do under these circumstances. For example, what would the S.W.A.T. captain do if he found two of his members kissing? Would he instantly call them out, commanding them to get out or he would dock their pay? And if he would, what would he do if they were too deeply engrained into a more specific sort of act?

No, Wesker didn't want to do _that_, it was just rude.

But then again, what Redfield and Valentine were doing was unprofessional. Not in the passionate term, no, they were doing that quite spectacularly, but the overall job required them to be searching for evidence, not kissing inside a small room. Why would they be turned on in a murder scene for Christ's sakes? It just wasn't _right._ But Wesker was a backstabber. Who was he to say what was right and wrong?

Additionally, there was some sort of… this sounded ridiculous even to him, but yes, there was some sort of _innocence_ to the whole thing. They were kissing quite passionately, of course, but they weren't going any further than that. From what he could see through the screen, Valentine was making sure of that by keeping a firm hold on Redfield's wrists.

As the S.T.A.R.S. captain watched on, Valentine pulled away enough to whisper, "You _really _need to stop smoking, Chris," before Redfield rolled his eyes and pulled her back in.

Wesker gently opened the door and stepped outside. For the first time in his life, he was at a true loss what to do. Had he even suspected that there'd be romantic feelings between the two? Of course not, he wasn't the office gossip, and even then, they had their own lives, he couldn't much expect them to keep their jobs above their feelings like he did. He gave himself several scenarios which to do, none of which appealed to him, and then thought of what Burton would do if he ran across such a scene, coming up with a scenario that did appeal to him.

He walked down the stairs very slowly, quietly, like a cat. Then for a moment, he watched Burton surveying the blood stains on the aisle seats. Wesker turned back, deliberately making as much noise as he could walking up the stairs. Before he stomped on the last step, he watched the confession door swing open, both Redfield and Valentine stumbling out, their clothes neatly arranged and Valentine's beret back on her head instead of on Redfield's.

"I was looking for both of you," Wesker said, his tone immaculate, his face expressionless. They stared back at him, their faces flushed. Valentine fidgeted. Redfield only tapped out a cigarette, deliberately ignoring the look Valentine gave him.

"What were you doing in there?" he asked pointedly, enjoying the sight of them freezing momentarily. Then Redfield lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, irritating the hell out of Wesker.

"Oh," Redfield said simply, "Just looking for evidence, captain."

**FIN**


End file.
